


it'd be easy

by buir



Category: Stargirl (TV 2020)
Genre: M/M, Masturbation, One-Sided Attraction
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-06-06
Updated: 2020-06-06
Packaged: 2021-03-04 03:27:02
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,558
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24566899
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/buir/pseuds/buir
Summary: It's late, and in his restlessness it's all too easy to let his thoughts stray towards Pat. Sylvester's been doing it for ages, now.
Relationships: Sylvester Pemberton/Pat Dugan
Comments: 3
Kudos: 34
Collections: Banned Together Bingo 2020, UnrequitedLoveORareThey





	it'd be easy

_“Happy birthday, kid. I’ll get’cha a real cake in the morning. Now go get some shut-eye.”_

Pat’s voice echoes in his head like ringing bells, and the kiss that had been pressed to the top of his head burns even in the state of memory.

It makes Syl restless. Two hours past midnight, forty-seven minutes since he and Pat returned from another night of successful vigilantism, and despite the ache in his muscles that always comes with a hard mission, he can’t go the hell to _sleep_.

He thinks about things a little too hard: the fact he’s twenty-one now, the fact that Pat still calls him _kid_ , the fact he’s now as adult as an adult can be, the fact that Pat thinks he still wants chiffon birthday cakes and candles at a birthday party for kids.

But Syl wants _alcohol_ , now. He wants there to be alcohol at his birthday celebration, because Pat had never let him have alcohol before. He wants to celebrate at some bar instead of at home, wants the other rich socialites that like to kiss his ass to be gone, and wants to spend a night with Pat alone.

Because in the end, all he wants is to get wasted for the first time. And more than that, he wants _Pat_ to get wasted—wants it so Pat’s so unbelievably smashed he’ll kiss him, too.

He can imagine it so clearly, having seen Pat drunk before. Pat’s got some godly tolerance, sure, but the moment that tolerance is hit he gets all giggly and sweet and _stupid_. Syl knows, with striking clarity, that Pat’s cheeks get a pretty pink when he’s drunk enough. He knows that Pat likes to sling an arm around his shoulders and talk real close, his accent thick and his smile the epitome of sunshine. He knows what Pat likes to call him—that he thinks he’s amazing, incredible, so _brave_ and _strong_.

It would be so _easy_ , and he knows it. Syl shuts his eyes and he can imagine Pat’s rambling, Pat’s arm, Pat’s blushing cheeks—and he can imagine leaning in and finally closing that distance.

* * *

_Pat would be mid-anecdote, because of course he would be, and his mouth would be open and Syl would be able to kiss him deep because of it. And though Pat might be frozen for the first second or two, Syl would hear the tell-tale thump of his beer bottle being put down, and then the sinful sound of Pat moaning as their tongues touched, and rubbed, with Syl’s hand settling on the back of his neck where it belongs._

_God. A guy like Pat_ has _to be sensitive, right?_

* * *

Syl’s whole body shivers, and he wonders what it’d be like to hear Pat whimper. The tips of his fingers brush his own lips, and then slip between them as he pretends it’s Pat’s tongue instead.

* * *

_They’d kiss too long, enough that Pat wouldn’t be able to keep up, and though he’d apologise and stumble over his words, Syl would tell him that it was okay. That Pat was good. That Pat was_ perfect _, and that he was just as brave, and just as amazing, and just as incredible as Syl was on any given day. Pat would look at him with his surprised, wide-eyed expression—the idiot’s never any good at getting praise—and Syl would grin his trademark grin, before leaning in to kiss his neck and say something about getting back to the car._

* * *

Even here, the imagining is easy. With his fingers wet Syl’s hand travels down, down past the waistband of his boxer briefs to feel for the length of his cock. He’s half-hard already, flesh stirred with the idea of Pat as it always fucking is, and one hand curls into the headboard above him as the other wraps loosely around his dick.

Sometimes Syl thinks about Pat on his knees, pouting lips wrapped around him and his lashes fluttering as Syl thrusts into his mouth. Sometimes it’s Pat on his lap, moaning, neck being littered with marks and kisses whilst Syl jerks them off together. More often he thinks about fingering Pat open, and the way his muscles would tense and melt the more he played with him, and how he might _taste_ if Syl so chose to fuck him with his tongue. He likes to think Pat wouldn’t know what to do with himself. He likes to think Pat would arch and his hips would jerk and he’d keep pushing back, desperate, into Syl’s touch.

He imagines it— _‘Oh_ God _, Sylvester, please, I need…’_

And Syl’s breath goes shaky as his fist runs up and down his prick, his grip on the headboard tightening as he thinks so, so unbelievably hard.

* * *

_Pat wouldn’t be able to say anything too strong, would stumble over the words_ fuck me _enough that Syl would chuckle and ask him to say that again. It wouldn’t really matter—Pat’s legs would be spread by now, and his hole would be loose and wet with lube, and he’d be blushing all the way down to the rise of his own erection—but Pat would try, anyway._

_‘Fuck—_

_‘Just, I want you to—_

_‘Sylvester,’ he’d whine, like he always does when Syl teases him, ‘just get inside me already!’_

* * *

“Ah—” Syl’s breath stutters, his hips rocking up into his quickly sliding fist as the bed creaks weakly beneath him. “Ah, ah, ah—”

* * *

_Pat’s legs would lock around him and Syl would press into him, fill him, split him open as Pat’s toes curled. He’d fuck a moan out of him, long and low and whining with every inch that sank in. And when he bottomed out, and he and Pat were joined, finally, then Pat would wrap his arms around him and kiss him on the mouth, and Syl wouldn’t just be a kid to him any more._

_No, he’d be his_ lover _._

_And it would be perfect, he imagined, like the Star-Spangled Kid and Stripesy always were. Syl would move his hips and Pat would move in tandem, and he’d fuck him slow just so Pat wouldn’t forget what it felt like to be full._

_‘Yes,’ Pat would breathe, fingers digging into Syl’s scalp, head tilting back so Syl could suck his neck as he gripped his hips and took him. ‘Oh,_ yeah _, Syl—like that, darlin’, just like that.’_

* * *

“ _Pat_ ,” Syl whines, knees raised and feet flat on his mattress, and he presses a hand to his mouth as he slicks his cock with the precome that beads at the tip of him and smears against his palm. “Mmf…” And even muffled like this he can’t stop saying Pat’s name, can’t stop thinking of Pat’s face, imagining Pat’s body. “ _Pat_ —”

* * *

_‘I love you,’ Pat would say as he crested higher, as he gasped and moaned and bounced with every steady pound into his tight body. ‘Oh, Syl, I love you, I’ve always loved you. And I love being full of you, I love when you touch me, and fuck me, and own me…’_

* * *

Syl gasps, his toes curling hard into the sheets, and his eyes squeeze as tight as he can make them. “I love you too, Pat, ohhh _fuck_ —”

* * *

_‘Come inside me,’ Pat would tell him. ‘Please? Syl, I want you to come inside.’_

_And Syl_ would _, damn it! He’d kiss Pat hard, and fuck him into the mattress, and fill him with cock and come and heat, and Pat would scream in something like gratitude as he came between them, too—_

* * *

“Fuck! Pat—!” His come arcs in the air and lands on his belly in wet, long spurts of white, and Syl _groans_ as he squeezes himself, milking rope after rope of the mess that pools on his stomach. “Oh… oh, fuck…”

* * *

_—and Syl would fill him up, and Pat would be shivering, and when Syl made to kiss him long and sweet and dirty, Pat would return it all with these weak, delicious little moans, as his ass clenched tight around Syl where he was still buried inside of him._

* * *

Syl gives himself a few more weak little tugs, and then lets his hand thump uselessly down onto the mattress. He gives it a few moments as his imagined self settles with Pat in his arms, finishing the idea off with Pat comfortable and happy and complaining about the sweat, and then his eyes open.

It’s always so unbearably crushing being left to stare at the ceiling after these things. The glow of his orgasm persists, of course, but the joy of his imagination fades as he settles more fully into reality.

In the real world, Pat still thinks he’s a kid. In the real world, Pat is probably asleep and dreaming of whatever it is nerds dream about, and Syl is lying alone in bed wishing that Pat was dreaming in his arms instead.

It’s been about three hours since the clock swung towards midnight, and it’s been about three hours since Syl turned twenty-one years old.

Come dries on his skin, and Syl thinks a bleary little thought before he gets up to clean himself off.

Even if all they have tonight is cake, all that matters to him is that Pat is happy.

That’s how real lovers do it, anyway.

**Author's Note:**

> For the Banned Together Bingo 2020, prompt "Masturbation"


End file.
